


Awake

by stephanericher



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: KNBxNBA, Other, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-30
Updated: 2018-05-30
Packaged: 2019-05-15 23:02:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14799648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stephanericher/pseuds/stephanericher
Summary: Tatsuya retires (reluctantly).





	Awake

**Author's Note:**

  * For [justlikeswitchblades](https://archiveofourown.org/users/justlikeswitchblades/gifts).



> happy (extremely late) valentine's day sunshine <3

The locker room is nearly empty by now, and Tatsuya supposes he should be feeling empty, too. He hasn’t been prone to this sort of terrible, overwrought parallel since his adolescent MySpace days full of display name changes to some sort of surface-deep “ironic” message about how hollow and sad he’d felt. (Perhaps for a little longer than that, but not much.) He’s had time to think about this moment, from a year out, one more injury away, a few months toward another year finished comfortably in last place. They might extend him an offer if he decides to stick around, but stubborn as he is, there’s nothing left for him here that makes it worth it. But that feels the opposite of empty. He’s full of all sorts of things, wants he’s been trying to curb for years, aches and pains he’s learned to lived with, conflicts where there shouldn’t be any.

Tatsuya’s cleaned out this locker room in this arena ten times, since they moved here from the old one, after playoff runs cut short and never reached and not even dreamed of. He checks each corner of his locker, taps the nameplate with the heel of his hand. He doesn’t need the luck for next season, but it can’t hurt now.

A few reporters have asked him for quotes, what went wrong this season, whether or not he’ll be back, but they’re mostly leaving him alone. Out of respect, perhaps, but respect doesn’t pay the bills or make much of an interesting story (and this is New York). The younger players give better quotes; they’re the future of if not this franchise then another one, more in tune with the way the league operates than a relic from another area like Tatsuya.

It’s not empty, but it’s bitter, that this is the end, no last hope or hurrah, just a bag hoisted on his shoulders, fingers playing with the volume buttons on the phone in his pocket. It’s just as well.

His apartment’s a fucking mess, but there’s not much here he wants to take back with him. It’s all either in his parents’ basement or it made the migration over to the apartment in LA. Home, Tatsuya thinks, and a humorless smile threatens to stretch itself across his mouth. Without even a mirror around, he still fights it back.

His flight out’s tomorrow; Taiga and Alex could have been with him last week but he’d cut off any offer they’d made. It’s not about what he’d thought he’d feel (or even that he’s still afraid of them seeing him a certain way—they’ve seen him in every way he doesn’t want to be seen, cut and bruised, in and out of surgery, trying to make his body cooperate at least enough to pull him through the next game or series or a whole season). They’d get this; they’ve retired, too, Taiga more willingly and Alex less. It’s difficult to explain or articulate, but they get that, too, and damn if he doesn’t know how lucky he is.

He’s going to miss the hiss of the radiator, like a beer bottle jammed halfway open, and the view out the window of fog and his neighbor’s television across the alley, always on at four in the morning but never for the evening news. Not the peeling plaster on the ceiling or the shitty overhead lights, not the thrift-store furniture he’d had to lug in using the freight elevator. He’ll miss what comes with living here more, the memories of coming back here after a playoff win, champagne in his hair. Of Taiga and Alex here with him, but they’ll be waiting on the other end of the flight.

He could stay, wait for an offer to be extended, take the veterans’ minimum. He could turn around, go back, turn the key in the door, unlock it again, and then what? Maybe the lock’s rusted through or double-bolted; he’s made his choice. Regrets, nth guesses, emptiness or lack thereof, he’s done.

* * *

When Tatsuya was young, he could sleep anywhere. That was before everything hurt, when he could wear his muscles out and spring right back into another game like foam, and his mind and body synchronously wanted all 48 minutes and then every overtime. Now it’s only his mind, competition against his past self that Tatsuya keeps losing to an embarrassing degree. And now he can’t even sleep properly in his own bed, Taiga and Alex pressing up against him.

The position’s not uncomfortable; it’s not like trying to fall asleep on the flight earlier that day, when he’d kept jerking awake with a sudden motion on the plane or when he'd drift halfway off only to be brought back by a cramp in his neck or his knee. The warm weight of both of them is welcome in the freezing bedroom; the light streaming in from outside is minimal but when Tatsuya turns his head he can see the condensation from the air conditioner frosting the window. Tatsuya closes his eyes again, and Alex sighs in her sleep. He used to be able to get to sleep by matching his breathing patterns with one of theirs, focusing on the rhythm, his arm draped across Taiga’s stomach as it rose and fell or the sensation of Alex’s breath against his shoulder. They’re in conflict with each other like broken windshield wipers, occasionally matching up for only half a breath and then falling apart, farther and farther between them. Thinking about sleeping doesn’t help, but Tatsuya can’t concentrate. He flexes his foot under the covers; it doesn’t bother his ankle too much to do that.

He’d thought too soon; a sharp tug makes him wince and almost jerk forward. Alex and Taiga notice nothing; their breathing remains even and they remain unaware. Tatsuya rolls his eyes to nothing, mostly about his ankle but also about still being awake. He can’t risk twisting his body further to see the clock or someone’s phone, but it has to be after one, local time. He’s still on New York time and it’s four there; he hasn’t slept in twenty-one hours.

Sleep will come, eventually. He closes his eyes again. He usually thinks about basketball to get him there, but that’s just going to agitate his body now. Alex and Taiga’s breathing is closer to synchronous now; Tatsuya slowly exhales. Maybe he can slot his own rhythm in between the two of them.

* * *

“It’s like the summer off that doesn’t really end,” Taiga says. “I know it’s a little cliche at this point, but it’s true.”

He casts his fishing line out into the water, farther than Tatsuya’s, still bobbing close to the pier. Tatsuya doesn’t feel like recasting; he leans back on his hand, the weathered wood scraping softly against his palm. Summers off felt at best like a mixed blessing, but he’s not going to rehash this for the sake of arguing. It’s good to not put his body through a fucking meat grinder that he’s not young and stupid enough to thrive in anymore. It’s good to be at home with Taiga and Alex. Tatsuya knows these things, and they’re not unattractive. He can still play basketball, streetball or friendlies or something, whenever he wants.

Taiga had—not wanted to, but he'd felt like retiring. It had been a decision that he hadn’t felt forced into, and something where he’d consciously thought the benefits would outweigh the risks. Tatsuya doesn’t want to make him regret that or make Taiga feel as if that’s what he’s trying to do. They’re different people, but the weight of that sits between them like a cartoon shark about to tear through the pier from underneath and blast them apart.

Tatsuya reaches for Taiga’s hand, covering it. It’s more tan than usual; he hasn’t been indoors all season. He looks good; Tatsuya’s told him as much already. He could say it again, but the relative silence would be shattered, and it might drive the fish away (not that they ever seem to bite Tatsuya’s bait).

Taiga turns his head and grazes Tatsuya’s heel with his toe. Tatsuya looks over; Taiga darts in quick to kiss him. He lifts his knuckles into Tatsuya’s; Tatsuya smiles and Taiga pulls away.

“I bet you’ll catch something.”

Tatsuya snorts. “We’ll see. Maybe an empty chip bag.”

“You can be more positive than that.”

“I’m not good at fishing,” says Tatsuya. “It’s okay, Taiga. I still enjoy it.”

Taiga blinks.

“Do I act like I don’t?”

Taiga shrugs. “I mean…it’s obviously not your favorite thing.”

“Not my least favorite, either.”

Taiga smiles. Tatsuya flicks his wrist; the lure moves about an inch out on the water and then bobs back to where it was.

They’d brought plenty of ice packs with the water and beer in their cooler, and they’ll need every drop in the sunny haze today’s brought—early in the year, but not totally unwelcome. The pier’s not crowded, so Taiga reels in his empty line and stretches out for a nap after lunch. Tatsuya considers joining him, but he’s not really sleepy despite the two-odd hours of sleep he’d managed last night (even if he were, there’s no guarantee he’d be able to get to sleep anyway).

Taiga’s shirt is riding up on his stomach; his abs are still defined but softer than they’ve been in years. Tatsuya supposes he won’t miss the extra fitness training he’s had to do the past few years just to keep a slower pace than usual, but—that was part of the package. There’s no playing ball at peak levels without working hard for it, even when you say you don’t practice.

He’s thinking too hard; he’s already impatient for this neverending summer to finish the hell up so he can get back on the court. He’s not a kid who can just tell his body to heal by taking it easier and getting in better shape anymore, and willful ignorance of that won’t make it true. The beer is bitter on Tatsuya’s tongue.

* * *

Tatsuya can’t fall asleep that night either; he’s so fucking tired and sore but the bed does nothing, and his sleeping partners do nothing, and he’s really going to wake them up soon if he doesn’t get out and do something. It’s not a restlessness where he has to physically do something; doing anything makes him want to stop and start something else. Something, anything, to make the time pass so he can reach the breaking point and throw himself off. He knows how to re-form himself from that point, not from here.

The living room is warm; Tatsuya turns the box fan in the window on low and puts the TV on. There’s a show on, people standing in a kitchen with wine glasses speaking Spanish, and Tatsuya concentrates on picking out words and phrases he knows. He can think himself to sleep this way if he thinks hard enough, the translation of an individual word irrelevant to the rhythm of spoken words and the clatter of wine glasses by the time he finds it in his mind.

A sudden punctuation of sound, and Tatsuya jerks forward. Someone’s dropped a wine glass; he yawns. He should go back to bed but he’s finally falling asleep and he can’t risk getting up and throwing that all away. His eyes fall closed; his lips part and he feels himself begin to drool. The floorboard creaks behind him and he jerks forward again; it’s probably nothing. The man onscreen yells something in Spanish.

“Any good?”

Tatsuya turns around, wiping the drool from the corner of his mouth. Alex is squinting in the light, her glasses off and her hair a mess.

“I don’t know. Just white noise.”

Alex leans over the back of the couch to smack a kiss on his cheek, exaggerated and with dry lips. Tatsuya reaches up to trail a finger through her hair. She hops over the back of the couch like a hockey player over the boards and lands in front of Tatsuya’s legs. She grabs the remote and switches the TV off; the silence is a bit jolting.

“Sorry. I didn’t want to wake you guys up.”

“It’s okay. I just got up to pee and you weren’t there, so,” says Alex.

She squeezes his hand; her nails are blunt but they dig into his hand slightly. She’s waiting for him to say something, to say what he wants or needs to, letting him carry the conversation, and Tatsuya’s grateful for the thought but he can’t describe what he’s feeling. It sounds stupid inside his own head, like some organ inside of him is bouncing and hitting against his walls, like he can’t move but he can’t stay still.

“I’m so fucking tired,” says Tatsuya. “But I feel too tense to sleep. I guess I’m—anticipating something. Like when can I feel really horrible and get it out of my system and just go forward?”

Alex nods. “You’re hoping. That they’ll call and say this is all a terrible mistake, that you’ll work out tomorrow and it’ll all go away.”

“I’m…”

Not. Not a hopeless optimist. That’s a lie; he can act cynical and pessimistic and dismissive of himself and feel that way, truly, to a deep extent, but if he had no hope he wouldn’t keep chasing this stupid fucking dream long after it had ceased to be possible. He’d have let himself give up and moved on instead of trying and trying until he’d made it. And if he’d done it once, that proves it’s not impossible. People make comebacks often enough that the odds seem better than getting there in the first place.

But maybe that’s independent, like the odds of four of a kind after a royal straight flush.

“Yeah,” Tatsuya says.

“I know,” Alex says. “It wasn’t exactly the same for me, but it was close enough.”

If she’s at a distance where she can look back on it like this, that’s more than Tatsuya’s given her credit for, and shame creeps up his back like brambled vines. He’s long since quit looking for his future in her past, but it still feels too close to an uncomfortable projection.

“This is awkward to talk about, though,” says Alex. “I’m sorry. It’s difficult.”

“I should get over it,” says Tatsuya.

Alex squeezes his hand. “Give yourself time. It’s okay to let yourself feel shitty about it’ it’s the only way you’ll feel better.”

“At a certain point, it’ll be too long,” says Tatsuya.

“It’s not now,” says Alex.

She leans in to kiss him. “You can talk to Taiga about this. He’s had his share of doubts, too.”

“I know,” says Tatsuya (guilt, again, pricking his back). “It’s…”

“Hard? Probably more awkward?” says Alex.

“Yeah,” says Tatsuya. “No. Maybe. Just—yeah.”

Alex smiles, tender and soft and not at all mocking. Tatsuya wants to sob with frustration like he’s ten and in the passenger seat of her car, but the cathartic motion won’t rise through his body. There’s not enough in there.

“It gets easier?”

“Yeah,” says Alex. “It comes and goes. When you two went pro it—it was hard all over again, but easier, too, in a way. I’m glad I had the career I did, and I can live with how it turned out.”

She glances sidelong at Tatsuya, and he smiles. He would have wanted to find her anyway, Alex Garcia of the LA Sparks, his basketball hero. Things might not have turned out the same, but there’s no use in wishing for tracks behind them to switch over for a retread.

“We’re here for you,” Alex says. “To take care of you even when you don’t want it.”

Tatsuya half-grimaces, but his face softens when Alex’s mouth meets his again.

“Let’s go back to bed,” he says.

Taiga’s half-awake when they come back into the bedroom, only half-listening when they talk. But Tatsuya’s only half-talking; eventually Alex’s voice takes over and he buries his head in Taiga’s chest. It’s firm and warm and he’s so fucking tired that he hasn’t finished settling into position before he’s out.

* * *

Tatsuya wakes up before the alarm. He waits for his spatial awareness to catch up with him, moving to stretch and realizing the scope of the emptiness of the bed, and then—there is no alarm. They don’t need one (perhaps he does, if he wants anything out of today). Tatsuya pushes himself up, glancing over at the clock; it’s only ten but that would be one east coast time. He’s rested, though; sleep is still pulling at him but it’s with the harmless grip of a worn-out machine. There is nothing inside of him pulsing and churning, no food processor on pulverize. The coverlet’s tangled in his legs and his wrist is stiff, but that’s normal, calm. Tatsuya takes a breath and his pulse quickens; he takes another and tries to ease the tension in his shoulder.

Once he’s satisfied the jittery restlessness isn’t about to leap from the shadows of his body, Tatsuya gets up. The living room is bright; the curtains are open and Taiga’s watching TV (probably the news). There’s nothing to keep Tatsuya from looking a little longer than he otherwise would, and then a little longer than that.

“You don’t have to stand so far away,” says Taiga.

Tatsuya takes his time walking over. “Guess you’ve got a point.”

He smells like coffee and Alex’s shampoo; his hand wraps loosely around Tatsuya’s, and he’s not holding back on looking at Tatsuya the way he wants, either. His eyes drag a line down Tatsuya’s face to the stretched neckline of his t-shirt, down his arms, past the scars on his elbow and wrist, still too pale and sharp. Tatsuya wants to shift, to kiss Taiga and divert his attention, but he lets it wash over him; it’s not negative or critical or even worried. It’s okay; it’s more than okay.

The couch sinks on Tatsuya’s other side when Alex sits down on it; he looks over and she’s smiling soft like a half-dimmed lightbulb in a sconce.

“How are you?”

“Fine,” says Tatsuya.

Fine, not empty, not full of something that’s pushing at him from the inside. For now, or however long that lasts.


End file.
